Stolen Heart
by DarkForbidden-Love
Summary: John Hamish Watson is a thief of the highest calibre and all he wants is Sherlock's heart. He wins it the only way he believes possibble, by being an enigma of the strangest quality.
1. Chapter 1

I don't own Sherlock. But this story is mine, even if I offered no name where it is elsewhere published.

Background: John Watson is a thief and Sherlock Holmes is supposed to catch him. Neither planned on falling for the other.

His flat= 221B Baker street, he didn't actually need a flat mate, he just wanted one.

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><p>Sherlock started when he received a text at a crime scene. Anyone who normally would text him where all here so he ignored it, waiting until he was done. The crime was boring and mundane: jealous wife killed her husband's lover and made it look like suicide. At least the crime was a quick one and he could now check his phone to see who had texted him five times in the past 10 minutes. Who was quite surprised to find his phone said <em>The Thief<em> was the person who was texting him, as he knew that particular name had never been set in his phone.

Sherlock gave a little grin and opened up the text messages, not minding that the JHW mystery had just gotten a bit harder. The first one was borderline ridiculous it states in flowery white and red text: _Happy Valentine's Day, Detective. _The second was more like the thief: _You need to do to your flat now. _The third repeated the message with a bit more information _Some'body' is waiting for you at the flat. _Sherlock stared at the phone wondering if it would be appropriate to grin. How had the thief known that he needed another body to test the riding crop on? The last two where _You need better flat decorations _and _A whole row of the wall dedicated to my heists~ I'm flattered Sherlock. _ He smiled at the image of his blond haired thief lounging in the flat commenting on the décor and level of obsession Sherlock had for each case.

_Was at crime scene and didn't care it was Valentine's day. Have you left yet? If not I need milk. –SH_

_Noticed and got you some milk. Gone –JHW_

_Pity, we could've have fun –SH_

_If only I thought gaol cells where fun. –JHW_

_Your loss. –SH_

_Pretty sure you mean "the Yard is lost" Now go home and tell me if you like him. –JHW_

_Yessir –SH_ with that he allowed the screen of his phone to go black and he put it in his pocket. His step and pace increased slightly, he was now in a hurry to get home. He examined the door of his flat and saw no signs of it being broken into. Mrs. Hudson appeared right inside the doorway as he finished his inspection.

"So glad to see you. A nice man, said he was a doctor, was in earlier with a box for you. Said it was important, I had him put it in your flat." And that explained everything; Sherlock inclined his head showing that he understood Mrs. Hudson and headed up the stairs to the parlor room of his flat. Nothing had been moved or changed except for the chair he never sat in had obviously been used in his absence and there was a cup of tea on the table. Sherlock did not bother to examine the chair for left behind evidence; his thief was too good for that.

This spawned an image of his blond haired thief lounging in the chair with a bored expression on his face. The mental image made Sherlock grin, his thief was a lot more domestic than he normally thought. Sherlock went over to the tea and noticed it was still hot; the thief must have left a little while ago. There was a note tucked under the mug though and Sherlock managed to get it out from under the mug without spilling the tea. It read, "Dear Sherlock, as I'm sure you've already deduced your kind landlady let me in. I left the body on the kitchen table, hope you don't mind. Also made you tea and dinner, you need to eat more. –JHW" At this rate Sherlock thought his thief might as well move in with him.

The tea was made to his exact liking and Sherlock took a sip. It was good tea and he quickly drank it all, not worried about a poison or any other type sedative. His thief was much more honorable then that. Once he was done he moved into the kitchen and just as the note said there was a body on the table. It had been placed as to not disturb his other experiments. The body had been well cleaned and it had died of natural causes. There was another note tacked to the body. Sherlock moved closer and plucked it up, "I'm not a killer (now), just a thief. This body doesn't need returned to the morgue; it is already 'buried'. –JHW" Sherlock was adoring this thief more and more, why could they not have met earlier? There where plastic containers lining the counter and Sherlock knew they contained the preserved organs of the man on his table. Next time he saw the thief he would thank him. No one had ever gotten him a dead body before.

_Thank you, no one had ever gotten me a dead body before. -Sh_


	2. Chapter 2

I gotten a few comments but lots of watchers and a few favs; I'm going to assume that means you all want another chapter. To be honest, I have nothing planned at all and I'm winging this. I'm not even sure this is up to your standards so my most sincere apologies if it does not seem adequate.

I don't own Sherlock.

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><p>John knows he has only a few precious seconds left before the alarms bring the police to his crime scene. He is not in a hurry as his objective is already complete. The detective was alerted of his presence and he had the Queen's Opal. As John held his prize up he could not help but notice its inherent flaws. To be honest it was a brilliant piece of art, as the tear dropped shaped opal's colors seemed to shift with the light. The opal was set in silver and that silver showed a little wear in the form of malformed edges and slight discoloration. The opal reflected any light and so John was able to replace his mask before Sherlock rounded the corner. "Hello." John greeted him.<p>

Sherlock's eyes danced up and down John's body and he returned a curt, "Hello."

"Expecting something else?" John asked tilting his head impishly to the side.

"I was only wrong about the height," Sherlock said almost to himself, "but of course your boots would explain that- can't believe I didn't notice earlier."

John's smile was hidden behind his mask but he had a feeling Sherlock knew about it any way, "I'm assuming this also means you've figured out why I do it?" Sherlock's slight frown was the only answer John received as Scotland Yard chose that moment to appear in the hallway. "Alas," John said moving closer to an opened window, "my captors have arrived; maybe you'll catch me later." Having said all that needed said, John took a dive out the opened window and made a clean escape.

"I must thank the gardeners later." John murmured to himself as he landed in the bushes on the deck two stories below the window he had jumped from. The only injuries he has sustained were minor bruising thanks to the way the garden was arranged. The ground level was another two stories down but he had a head start on the Scotland Yard. John quickly scrambled out of the bushes and had picked the lock on the door that lead back into the mansion. Suddenly a black blur landed in the place he had just vacated. He heard a slight groan from them and mentally cursed when he realized it was Sherlock who had followed him. Quickly he scrambled into the marble hallways of the mansion waiting only a few seconds to make sure Sherlock was fine after his fall before running.

Sherlock could hear the thief running away and quickly abandoned his scarf that was tangled in the bushes in favor of pursuing him. Sherlock admitted that JHW seemed to be well prepared creating a plan that would leave Scotland Yard far behind. The Yard would take the long way around which would cause them to lose the fleeing thief. Even as Sherlock turned another corner he knew that today he would not be catching the elusive thief, but he now had an even clearer mental image of the mysterious thief. The boots which adorned the thief's feet had thrown off a few of his calculations as they added almost two inches to the thief's overall height. Unfortunately or fortunately the thief had realized that cloth masks allowed for basic facial features to be seen and had opted for a metal version of the happy theatre mask. Meaning that Sherlock had little more to work from even though this was the first time he had gotten to see the thief head on. All his other clues had come from grainy photos, glimpses as the thief fled the scene, and what little evidence the thief left behind.

Too quickly for Sherlock's tastes the chase was over as the thief had managed to beat him to the stairs and the first floor from which JHW had proceeded to blend into the crowd. If Sherlock had really wanted to he could have carefully weeded though all the crowd goers until he saw someone who matched what facts he had gathered from his thief. But cornering a trainer Army Medic was always a bad idea even if they had impeccable morals and would never harm an innocent human. Sherlock allowed himself a little grin; this round went to his thief. Just as that thought flinted across him mind his phone vibrated. The caller ID was 'The Thief' and Sherlock restrained a smile. _Have a fun chase? –JHW_

Sherlock did not get to respond as he had to shove the phone in his pocket as the break-in division of Scotland Yard came down the steps. One of them was holding his scarf and walked over to give it back to him. Their division head was not Detective Inspector Lestrade but they were close friends, and if Lestrade knew he was texting the thief he would make Sherlock turn in his phone or force Mycroft to get Sherlock's phone. Sherlock was not too keen on that idea as his thief would only be able to contact him through the notes left at all his crime scenes. Although, Sherlock supposed, his thief could always break into his flat and leave notes that way and Sherlock would not mind terribly since that is where his thief belonged.


	3. Chapter 3

The plot is as evasive as our wonderful thief who is getting a new name in this chapter because JHW isn't going to cut it. Name is subject to change, ideas welcomed.

Don't own Sherlock.

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><p>Sherlock opened the morning paper to see the headline, <em><strong>Opal Moonlighter Still Baffling Yarders and Detectives Alike.<strong>_ He gave it a bemused look the 'moonlighter' was as real as any other human being and he was hardly baffling, just a bit slippery. As interesting as the article sounded Sherlock flipped to the second page and quickly located the article about the fourth serial suicide. It also said that a police press conference, media welcomed, was set for today at 4 pm. Sherlock grinned; it would be fun to disprove all of Lestrade's theories. The melodies of Mozart's 5th symphony wafted though the air, letting Sherlock know he had receive a text from his thief.

_Dead men tell no tales- JHW_ Sherlock stared at the text, what exactly did that mean? For now he would play along to see where it leads him.

_They tell so many tales you just have to observe- SH _

The reply came quickly, _What if you're blind? do the tales of the dead fall on deaf ears?-JHW_

_If you're blind, use your sense of smell or touch. Only when you lose the will to understand do you fail –SH_

_;) you might want to explain that to your kind lady friend-JHW_ Sherlock did not get a chance to reply to that as a white faced Mrs. Hudson came up the stair.

"No good thieves leaving bodies in my kitchen." Mrs. Hudson said calmly and Sherlock realized he had almost misread the emotions Mrs. Hudson was experiencing. She was not frightened; she was annoyed by someone dropping a body off in her pristine kitchen.

Wait, "Thieves, in your kitchen?" The only thief he knew was the one dubbed JHW and Opal Moonlighter which meant that the body was female and was probably the thief's way of delivering the clue to lead him to where the opal is hidden. It was something his thief had been doing long before he had caught Sherlock's eye. Sherlock scrambled past Mrs. Hudson and down the stairs into the land lady's own flat. The architecture mirrored that of 221B and Sherlock had been here multiple times so he had no trouble finding the kitchen. Laid on the table was a female, approximately 30 years old, dead of natural causes, and naturally tanned. She had been a writer or secretary judging by the state of her wrists; one who had a wealthy older sibling, a dependant younger one, and a very bad drinking and smoking habits. The combination of the last two was what did her in.

That was not what had Sherlock so interested though. It was actually the hole in the woman's chest where the heart should be that captured his interest. One could tell by the concaved chest that the woman had an empty chest cavity. Carefully Sherlock slipped on gloves, applied pressure to the chest, and was rewarded by the flesh giving way. The woman had been completely gutted and part of her ribs removed. Sherlock thought this to be fascinating but the inlaid opal and the note in the cadaver were far more interesting. Carefully Sherlock removed them from the corpse. The opal was obviously a fake but the note was real. "Quadrupled faces, all the same. Third from the sun to the south, bright only at dying light." Sherlock grinned as he read it; it was such a simple riddle! The first part of the riddle referred to Big Ben, or London's clock. The face pointed towards the northern sky and it would reveal the hiding place of the opal at dusk. "I'm done in here, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock shouted and pulled out his phone.

Quickly he texted _Body in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, related to Opal Moonlighter case- SH _to Lestrade knowing it would get to the right person. Plus, a dead person was Lestrade's division.

_Did you put it there? –L_

_No –SH_

_On our way- L_

About twenty minutes after he received that text he heard the sirens of the Yarder's cars. No wonder no one trusted Scotland Yard, it took them forever to get anywhere and they were not all that bright. Lestrade, the homicide division, and the break in division all attempted to break down the door all at the same time. Sherlock was amused by their idiocy and left Mrs. Hudson's kitchen to their mercy. Sherlock no longer needed any information from the body so he could afford to allow the Yard to destroy the clues. Sherlock donned his coat and ignored Lestrade shouts of, "Sherlock!" He had a clock to watch at sunset and only had three hours to be in the correct place and if he was correct Sherlock would not even need to wait for dusk to come.


	4. Chapter 4

Plot? What plot? But I have a bit more background. It is currently March 3rd in Sherlock's world and John has heists two to five times a month. And how often do you want me to update this? I can't do it every day as I've been doing.

This is offically my longest posted chapter. Hope you all enjoy~

**Meg:** Await no more, I hath delivered.

Yeah, I still don't own Sherlock.

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><p>Sherlock glared up at Big Ben. He had 2 hours until 5:40 when the sun would set and he still had not figured it out. He knew he had the right clock face but he could not figure out why exactly he needed to be there at sunset. He had tried possible theories concerning where the hands on the clock would be pointing, the numbers involved for the time of sunset in both military and standard time, and it had all come up empty. It should have been frustrating but instead it was invigorating, to know that there was something beyond his understanding; and this time someone's life was not depending on his answer to the puzzle. Well, he did suppose that if nothing else he would still see what Big Ben would be like with the sunset in the background. He would have to delete it later but for a second he supposed he could enjoy that picture, but that still left him two hours to burn. Sherlock barely noticed that he had received a text until he looked down at his phone.<p>

_Figured it out, detective? –JHW,_ Sherlock's brow furrowed, was he missing something obvious? Maybe it had something to do with reflections of the light and shadows. His eyes widened as he figured it out. It was obvious now; he was supposed to be under the clock, not looking at it!

_Possibly, testing a hypothesis-SH,_ He replied, typing as he took off in a run. He had to figure this out before it became too blatantly easy.

When his thief replied Sherlock could almost hear his amusement, _Took you long enough-JHW_

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and felt the corners of his moth twitch upward. _And you are watching? –SH._

_Yep~ And I quite like what I see-JHW. _ Sherlock allowed his eyes to roam around the surrounding area, knowing already he would not be able to catch the thief looking at him. If he had thought on it a little longer Sherlock would have realized that he did not mind it as he minded his brother's surveillance nor did he believe it to be malevolent as normal a thief's eyes were.

Sherlock arrived at the main road and hailed a taxi, telling the driver impatiently of his destination. _I'm not the one you should be watching-SH_

_Your pet Yarders pose no threat to me-JHW_

_I wasn't talking about them-SH_

_Your brother is hardly a concern of mine. He was intercepted anyways. –JHW. _ If Sherlock had been paying attention he would have been much more aware of the fact the taxi was not actually taking him to the base of the well know clock tower. As it was he only aware of this fact after the taxi stopped at the wrong destination. He almost snapped at the driver before realizing several things. A) The thing all the suicides had in common was that the bodies were found where they had no reason to be without being dragged there and B) no one had noticed anything out of the normal when they had disappeared. The pieces fell neatly together and Sherlock wondered how he had ended up in the same car as one of the few murderers who ran a London cab.

_Still have your eyes on me?-SH_

_?-JHW_

_I've just gotten into a cab with a serial killer (the suicides). Might be dangerous- SH_ Sherlock did not wait for an answer, knowing full well that either the thief was with him or finding his location. He muted his phone and waited to see what would happen. He tried to look surprised when they pulled up outside Bart's. This would be interesting.

"Sir," Sherlock started, pretending to be an idiot, "I think you've taken me to the wrong place." The cabbie turned around and pointed a gun (fake, Sherlock noticed, actually a lighter) at his head.

"I've got you right where I want you," The cabbie said, sneering, "now get out of the cab." Sherlock played along, even raised his hands as though to say he was harmless. Inside he was bouncing with excitement; he would finally be able to see how this man killed his victims. Carefully he extracted himself from the cab and was herded by lighter tip into a lecture hall. "Sit," the cabbie commanded and Sherlock grabbed a chair and sat in it, pretending to be afraid.

"Now we're going to play a little game." The cabbie said, moving his unoccupied hand to his shirt pocket and removed two bottled of identical pills. He placed them on the table and moved his eyes back to Sherlock. Sherlock had him already mentally catalogued, he knew everything from the aneurism to the fact his wife had left him three years ago but he still loved his children. "You pick one of the pills and I take the other. One is a poison and the other is harmless."

Sherlock scoffed, breaking character for the first time, "That isn't a game; it is luck-a 50-50 chance." The cabbie's eyes narrowed and he tried to threaten Sherlock with his gun. "You can stop the farce with the gun. I can tell a real one from a fake one, and the one you are holding is obviously a fake. A lighter if I'm correct."

The cabbie looked faintly impressed but wary, "Are you a Yarder?" He lowered the fake gun and slipped it back into his pockets.

"No." Sherlock stated almost gleefully. This was a smart man, a smart serial killer and therefore eager to get caught. Pity Sherlock did not want to catch him.

"It doesn't matter anyway." The cabbie said and Sherlock knew it was more to reassure himself than to inform Sherlock of anything. "You're still going to play the game."

"Why should I?" challenged Sherlock, "I have no reason too, I could walk away and turn you into Scotland Yard." Speaking of Scotland Yard reminded Sherlock that he needed to text Lestrade to tell him where to pick the murderous cabbie up. Sherlock's hand slipped into his coat pocket and he carefully texted Lestrade. _Murderous cabbie at Barts. Hurry- has me at gun point and I'm bored. –SH. _ After a little debate between himself he just sent it to his speed dial number 2. His thief, who was number 1, already knew where he was, and that he was not at gun point. Mycroft, number 3, would also know it to be untrue-as fun as it would be to try and make him worry.

The cabbie looked frightened for a bare millisecond before coming back into control, "But you won't. You knew my gun was not real yet you came with me. I don't know why, but I think you're one of those adrenaline junkies."

"Consulting detective actually." Sherlock replied flippantly and watched as the man paled dramatically.

"You're Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock rolled his eyes and felt tempted to say that he did not carry that particular name but he nodded instead. "Then you'll play my game to know that you're right."

"That I'm right?"

"Yes," The cabbie said visibly enthused. "Did you pick the good pill or the bad pill?" The cabbie pushed a bottle forward with his left hand. "And did I just offer you life or death?"

Sherlock stared at the pills for a second, he was curious and he did wish to prove he was superior to this stupid man, but was the chance of losing his life worth it? His hand moved of its own accord and Sherlock smirked, this man would lose no matter which pill he took. "The pills are of course identical in every way." He did not ask it as a question but of course the man took it as one.

"Of course." The cabbie replied.

Sherlock picked the pill closest to the cabbie and took a sniff, it had no distinguishing odor. "Why are you killing and how does it profit your children?" Sherlock asked, not really caring or paying attention. He was trying to figure out which pill was the poison. He noticed from the corner of his eye though that the cabbie had briefly panicked.

"How do you know about that?"

"Obvious. Now answer the question."

"I have a sponsor, one that is quite fond of you surprisingly. Said you where a proper genius."

"Name, I need a name."

"I'm not allowed to tell you, Mr. Holmes. Now let us take our medicine together." Sherlock lifted the pill to his mouth but never put it in as a bullet entered through the window and left a wound near the heart of the cabbie. Sherlock allowed a small, sadistic smile to slip though.

"You have a little life left, now tell me his name." Sherlock asked faux pleasantly as he applied force to the bullet wound in the cabbie's chest. The man whimpered and Sherlock increased the pressure.

"Moriarty!" The cabbie cried, sobbing. Sherlock removed his foot and smiled pleasantly at the sound of sirens approaching fast.

"Seems the Yard is here." Sherlock chirped and within minutes the area was swarming with Yarders and paramedics who kept trying to put a shock blanket on his shoulders. Apparently they had seen everything, except the shooter. He was herded into the back of the ambulance where he was greeted by Lestrade.

"Why do they keep putting this blanket on me?" Sherlock asked, knowing that is was simply for people who wanted to take his picture.

Lestrade just sighed and confirmed his theory, "Some of the men wanted to take your picture. Now Sherlock, how exactly did you end up with the cabbie? And I'm sorry but we couldn't find the shooter, not that they'd like get time for this but it is better to avoid the court case. We've got nothing to go on."

Sherlock was about to fix Lestrade's theory that they had nothing to go on then he caught sight of the smiling theatre mask in the shadows and clamped his mouth shut. Why should he add murder to the breaking and entering charge that would be on his thief's head?

"I'll need to take your statement, Sherlock." Lestrade said with a sigh when he realized that Sherlock wasn't going to tell him what he knew. Sherlock sighed, he really did not want to do that right now, he glanced back over to the shadows to see the theatre mask still there. Was his thief trying to get caught?

Lestrade followed Sherlock's line of sight and saw a blond haired man in a jumper, "You know him?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock nodded before he properly analyzed the question and Lestrade turned around and motioned to the man in the jumper, and did not notice the minor panic attack Sherlock was about to have. The man approached with a noticeable limp but that was not what attracted Sherlock's attention. The man's eyes where a particular shade of blue and he had been standing were seconds before his thief had been standing. That meant that either this was his real face or simply one of his thief's operatives.

"Hello," The blue eyed person greeted Lestrade and Sherlock.

"Sorry, I didn't make our appointment." Sherlock said, talking about the riddle for the opal and knew instantly from the non verbal response that this was his thief.

Lestrade's reaction was different then he expected, "Sherlock, you actually know John?" He sounded incredulous.

Thankfully John nodded and played along, "Yes, we only met a little while ago. I'm his doctor." Sherlock did not say a word because anything he said was not appropriate for the company they were in.

Lestrade shook his head, "Will wonders never cease."

"And I have to say, when was the last time you ate, Sherlock?" His thief asked perfectly playing the part of worried doctor.

"Don't remember." Sherlock replied honestly, still trying to process everything. John tutted disapprovingly and grabbed Sherlock's arm.

"Then we're going to that Chinese takeout near your flat." John said then turned to Lestrade, "If that's okay with you."

"Go ahead, John." Lestrade said with a smile and a twinkle in his eye. Sherlock wondered what part of the conversation he had missed.

Once they were out of ear shot Sherlock hissed, "What were you doing? You could've got caught."

John smiled cheekily, "Saving your life. And I like danger." Sherlock frowned and within seconds had his thief pinned again the wall.

"I could turn you in." He hissed, "This isn't dangerous, this is suicidal." Sherlock did not know what he was talking about, saving Sherlock's own life, hanging out at crime scenes, or associating with Sherlock.

"You won't though. Besides," his thief whispered into his ear, "It wouldn't be as much fun if I was in jail." Sherlock opened his mouth to retort and found himself facing a wall with no thief in sight, masked or unmasked.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Lana:**_ *Blushes* thank you~ So nice to know people like this.

_**Nina: **_Once a week at the least and three times a week at the most is kind of what I've now officially planned. Especially since I'm not going to be able to write early in the morning/really late at night any more.

Now on tumblr at http :/ darkforbidden-love. / (Remove spaces) if I seem to have forgotten this story just bug me here (meaning not updated in 24 hours ;). Even anonymous people are welcomed to 'annoy' me. More background: This chapter takes place March 5th, 2 days after John rescues Sherlock from the murderous cabbie and a day after the opal is located by Sherlock.

Do you honestly believe me to own el Sherlock y John?

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><p>Mycroft shifted the position of his hand on the handle of the umbrella for the third time in the past minute and a half. His little brother's fascination for a common thief was not good, and he was unable to even contact the thief to see if he might be willing to provide info on Sherlock's daily life. Mycroft was aware that his brother and the thief constantly traded texts and it was the thief that Mycroft had to thank for killing his brother's would be murderer. But he wanted the thief either under his control or out of Sherlock's life as who know what a dangerous variable might do to Sherlock's life. The thief was not even a proper thief; he left riddles and notes to lead people to where he had dropped off the stolen jewel. Even the expensive opal inlaid in silver had been returned. Sherlock had found it hanging from the bridge across the Thames. Mycroft knew it was due to a riddle the thief had left but the Yarders where still quite in the dark about how exactly Sherlock had known where to look.<p>

Speaking of thieves, he needed to talk to Lestrade about his choice in drinking buddies. John Watson was hardly acceptable material for that, even if he looked harmless in his jumpers and cardigans. It had not taken very much effort to connect who was the thief that had captured his little brother's attention to one of Lestrade's few friends outside the division. But, infuriatingly enough John seemed to know that Mycroft knew and was subsequently avoiding being brought in for a little chat. All he was trying to do was protect his brother, why must people make that so hard? Mycroft looked once again at the infuriating message that could have been left by only one man. Question was how had he managed to break through the security?

_I'm flattered you think so highly of me, Mycroft. But your brother's business is no business of yours. –JW_

Mycroft had to admit, writing that on his office wall was impressive, but it did not change his opinion that John Watson was a dangerous man and ought to be permanently removed. He glared once more at the spray paint and wished John had not added a yellow smiley face creepily similar to the one on Sherlock's wall, would have made it much easier on Mycroft's part to ignore what and who the message was alluding to.

**_*Change of Scene*_**

Sherlock bounced lightly on the balls of his feet. He was waiting for Lestrade to come with the case files he needed to prove that Edesgando Luca was the person who had killed the six women and their unborn children. It had been a rather exciting case and he had figured it out easily enough once he noticed a pattern in which women were killed. Well, Sherlock thought looking at his phone fondly, when someone pointed out a fact that led Sherlock to the pattern in which the women had been killed. John, his thief, had been a stunning amount of help on his cases. John was not quite Sherlock's level but he was above the average human and often pointed out things that seemed unnatural or inhuman about the crime scenes. John was also able to tell from only a texted observation of the body what had caused them to die. He was good enough to still draw the correct information from Anderson's pathetic attempts at informing him what was going on and how the body looked.

"I've got the cases you wanted, Sherlock." Lestrade said breaking him out of his musings. Sherlock was quickly engrossed in the files and was pleased to notice he had been correct in his early observations. These files would provide the key items for the man's arrest.

"It was Edesgando Luca." Sherlock said placing the files back in the folders. "These files simply cement that singular fact."

Lestrade looked confused, "But how? He has no connections to any of the women besides the first." Sherlock shook his head.

"Just arrest him; it is too bothersome to explain." Sherlock said shortly. "If it is that necessary I can be a witness and show the evidence, it is rather obvious."

Sherlock's hand went instantly to his phone as it began to vibrate and he had to hide a private grin once he read it. _Not to the common person, Sherlock. –JHW_

_Their fingers, John! None of them were married yet they were all with child, every one of them was in an affair with a married man and Edesgando was part of an underground movement that had a strong dislike of women who engaged in sexual acts with a married man yet were not bound to him. –SH_

_And how did the files prove that? –JHW_

_His locket had the engraving MFM(KH-UD) identifying which division of the 'order' he was and how strong a believer in the teachings of that particular sect. These files explain what the letters stand for and mention him by that same sequence-SH_

_Brilliant- JHW_

"Are you done texting you partner?" Lestrade asked with a long suffering sigh. Sherlock looked up from his next surprised.

"Oh, no, we aren't together." Sherlock said immediately and Lestrade raised an eyebrow obviously not believing Sherlock. "He's just a friend."

_Friend?-JHW_

Sherlock allowed a tiny grin at that, "Sorry, mutual acquaintances according to him."

"You're gay?" Lestrade asked bluntly.

"Not at all," Sherlock replied, "married to my work."

"Sir, there's been a break-in!" Donovan shouted marching into Lestrade's office not even sparing Sherlock a second glance.

"Not our division unless there's a dead body." Lestrade said honestly.

Sherlock perked up, "Is there a dead body?"

Donovan glared at Sherlock but shook her head, "Not directly, though it is believed that the break in had something to do with the two employees of that bank that are now dead. Here, I have pictures." Donovan pulled several photos out of a clear plastic evidence back and Sherlock quickly snapped pictures on his phone and sent them to John.

_What do you think of it? Two employees of same place as this is where found dead.-SH_

_Warning of some sort? Not sure, looks like a clean cut threat-JHW_

Donovan made a disgusted sound, "Would you please not text your girlfriend during a case? How did you even get a girlfriend?"

Sherlock glared at her, "I don't have a girlfriend."

Donovan looked slightly more repulsed, "Boyfriend then."

"Don't have one of those either, I'm married to my work." Sherlock almost growled, was it really that hard to believe that when he was texting that he was not texting a nonexistent partner? Donovan for her part looked relieved.


	6. Chapter 6

I still don't own Sherlock.

We've moved on to March 7th and a little bit of May 8th in this verse's time. And I'm using the first season's episodes as back ground sort of. So some of this will seem very familiar.

And this is unedit/unbeta'd/not Brit picked. Any mistakes are mine, please point them out.

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><p>John sighed and relaxed among the other museum goers. The traditions of pouring ancient tea over even older tea pots did not interest him. He was here to see the item he was supposedly going to steal. It annoyed him that someone dared to use his name for something as mundane as to steal from a museum. But if Sherlock was right that was not all they were trying to do. Sherlock had contacted him two days ago with pictures of a break-in. Not his type as the perpetrator had left a message in the form of a cipher over a picture. Personally it made John's blood boil, to see someone misuse their talents. Sherlock suspected greed to be the motivator of the break in and note but John was not too sure. It made sense in the short term but not in the long term plus the cipher made him uneasy which somehow led John here.<p>

"This museum will be closing in 10 minutes, please all visitors exit the building." A loud speaker chimed, startling John out of his thoughts. He had no intention of leaving tonight though and slipped off into the shadows of the museum. He listened for an interesting conversation between two employees of the museum. John did not think it to be important and would have staying in the shadows if not the scream. He bolted to the woman's side when she screamed, driven to the source of the pain not away from it and his eyes widened when he saw what exactly she had been so worried about. John quickly pulled his phone out and snapped a picture to send to Sherlock. The woman turned around, having heard John approach. Her face was ashen white and John barely had enough time to catch her when she fainted. Carefully John laid her on the floor, texting Sherlock the picture, and called both paramedics and police.

_Where did you take this picture?-SH_

_British Museum, __Great Russell Street, London WC1 –JHW_

_Be right there-SH_

_Gone already-JHW_ Once John was sure Sherlock was on his way he abandoned the museum knowing that there was nothing more he could do. There was more he could do he supposed but it would all require him getting caught which was not on the agenda tonight. Sherlock was much better suited for solving crime scenes anyways; John was just good at making them or finding them.

_They are connected. But why China?-SH_

_China?-JHW_

_Obvious. The only thing the first and second message had in common was that they were intended for someone who had been in China recently. The one at the bank was for a man who recently returned from Hong Kong, the second one was intended for the tea maker that emigrated from China that now works at the museum. Look for Edward Van Coon; tell me what you find–SH_

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's demand he would look up Van Coon though. _Any idea what the message was?_

_Threat of some kind, probably. How did the girl react to seeing it?-SH_

_Screamed and fainted-JHW_

_Defiantly a threat of some kind. I'll see if I can figure out the cipher, you deal will Van Coon and the girl. –SH_

John found himself rolling his eyes again. What exactly was he supposed to know about Van Coon that Sherlock did not already know? John did a quick search on Google for Edward Van Coon and got three possible addresses and people he could possibly be. John headed towards the closest one knowing he would not be getting sleep for a day or two.

When John came to the first location, he knew instantly this was not the Edward Van Coon he was looking for and left the area quickly. The second was showed promise, but soon was also revealed not to be the correct one. This left John with only one option left and 3 hours until sunrise. With little trepidation John broke into the third and final flat. At first he held little hope for this being the correct person's flat as it was bare. Then he entered the bedroom and stared. Lying on the bed was a man who had been murdered. From first glance it obviously was not a suicide so John simply sighed and snapped pictures of the crime scene. He sent them first to Sherlock then after several minutes' debate also to Lestrade.

_Who are you?-L_

_A worried party_ _–X_ John did not sign his initials on this text, he did not want his thief persona involved in murders at all and John Watson had no reason to be here at the present time.

_How long dead?-SH_

_I'd say around 4 hours.-JHW_

_Get out of there now, John. L sent DI Dimmock when he got your text. He thinks you're the murderer-SH_

John chuckled, had it been anyone else he would have thought they were worried for him. Knowing the detective though it was more likely he wanted absolutely no one else to catch John. Even so John did follow the detective's instructions as he always would when push came to shove. Quickly exiting the room and building via a chain of balconies he arrived at the bottom just as squad cars began to pull up outside. John was slightly impressed by the response time of these Yarders; normally it took them a longer amount of time to arrive at a crime scene. For once they were not here for him though so he slipped off in the crowd not completely noticed by anyone.

_Are you out?-SH_

_Yes. Didn't leave anything behind either-JHW_

_Good, now go home, get some dinner, go to sleep, and I'll tell you what happened tomorrow-SH_

_?-JHW_

_Wouldn't do for my thief to not be at his best tomorrow. We have a case to crack and I now that I actually have a competent companion this may go a bit faster-SH_

_What's tomorrow? –JHW_

_There may have been a third incident, second murder. Won't tell you more until your back at prime-SH_

John stared at his phone. Sherlock Holmes really was a mystery and a danger. No wonder John was so fond him. Quickly hailing a cab John set off for his army provided residence wondering what tomorrow would bring and why Sherlock was so insistent he be at his best.


	7. Chapter 7

I own not Sherlock. To be honest, I'm not happy with this chapter at all. Forgive me my errors? Oh and I believe this chapter makes this story officially my longest published one.

Date in Verse: March 9th

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><p>John woke gasping for air. It had been one of his dreams of Afghanistan; a subtle reminder of what he was missing - of how boring and absolutely mundane his life was. With a groan he forced both of his legs off the side of the bed and his eyes wandered to the clock. 10:27 am its glaring red characters read and John frowned. Even if he had gotten back later than usual he should have woken up at 6 o'clock sharp as per military training. Obviously he was falling out of shape despite his attempts not to. With a sigh John quickly stood up, dressed, put the kettle on, and checked his phone.<p>

_Journalist dead- look up 'Killer who walks through walls"-SH_

John quirked an eyebrow, but he pulled out his laptop and did as Sherlock suggested. It brought up an electronic newspaper article about the now deceased Brian Lukis, a reporter who was well known for his articles on China.

_Brian Lukis the Chinese writer?-JHW_

_Yes, he was killed by the same man as Van Coon was-SH_

_Was there a note?-JHW_

_Yes; same as the ones before-SH_

_Do you have a picture?-JHW_

_Yes-SH_

_E-mail it to yourself and run image recognition software; see what images had a similarity, if you're lucky you may even get a few more victims or a pattern-JHW_

When John did not get a response for several minutes he assumed that Sherlock had followed his advice and now had a lead, or had gotten distracted and was no longer interested in the case at that particular moment. John scrambled to his feet at the piercing cry of the kettle before he realized it was just the kettle. He did not notice his disappearing smile at the realization. He poured his tea with a growing sense boredom and wondered what he would do today. It was much too early in the month to plan another heist, and it was not like he could help Sherlock anymore at the current moment.

John supposed he could always write in his blog, but what could he write? He could not exactly spill his secret about who he was on occasion. Maybe a walk would do him some good, and a bit of practice running as he had been very close to being caught on his last heist. Grabbing his cane and his kit he drained the last of his tea and set out at a brisk pace. He was on the lookout for suspicious unmarked black cars as he was well aware that Mycroft would not take his insult lying down. John was just surprised he had not been accosted by potential kidnappers at an earlier date. He was about two miles into his walk when his non-work cellular phone starting ringing. The caller identification said it was _Gregory Lestrade_.

"Hey, Greg." John greeted amiably as he lifted the phone to his ear.

"Good afternoon, John." The DI returned sounded a bit strained.

"What did you call for? Do you need to reschedule or has someone gotten injured?" John queried suddenly worried by his friend's tone of voice.

Lestrade gave a short laugh, "Nothing like that, I just need you to come in for questioning. You were at the crime scene when the cabbie was shot and I have to interview you according to police procedures."

John smiled suddenly glad he was not talking to the DI face to face. "Of course, I can come anytime. When do you need me there?"

"As soon as possible, I don't want to have to drag this case out any longer then necessary." Lestrade said with a small sigh.

"Long day?" John questioned no longer able to ignore the tired undertone of Lestrade's voice.

John heard the rustling of paper and frowned wondering if Lestrade was over working himself again. "Something like that. So I'll see you later?"

"Yes, I'm heading over right now so you won't have long to wait." John said mentally promising himself to check up on Lestrade and order him home if necessary.

"Good-bye then."

"Good-bye." John replied and almost immediately heard the dial tone that meant he had been disconnected. This caused John's frown to deepen, what was so bad that Lestrade seemed completely spent before noon? This was not just a lack of coffee in the morning; John could tell the difference between lack of coffee energy and pulling a couple all nighters at age fifty. For a split second John wondered if Lestrade knew about his 'job' then realized that since he wasn't in cuffs or being warned by Sherlock that Lestrade knew, he was fine.

"Sorry." John apologized when he accidently knocked into a fellow pedestrian. The other person did not seem to notice and kept on walking. It was not until he started to feel light headed and woozy did John realized what had happened. He had just been drugged, and he had a good guess to what had done it unless his sister had gotten more paranoid since he had last seen her. John managed to stumble a little bit further noticing at least three tails and mentally cursing himself for not noticing. The last thing he saw before succumbing to darkness was Clara or Anthea as she liked to be called, stepping out of a black sedan. Who would have thought his sister would have married someone who worked for Mycroft?


	8. Chapter 8

Sorry for the weird chapter but I just found out one of my fellow DarkForbidden-Loves passed away this morning. I'll try to keep regular updates but no promises as I'll be helping with funeral preparations. This chapter is completely dedicated to the dead DarkForbidden-Love, may she rest in peace.

I don't own Sherlock.

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><p>When John woke up tied to a chair in a plain white room, he was not surprised. He knew that Mycroft liked to make dramatic entrances, and so was not currently waiting for his return to awareness. John estimated there to be about 10 cameras watching him at this moment so he easily slipped the knots that were supposed to hold him down and waved. The knots had been really easy to slip out of; maybe someone was losing their touch? He could leave now or he could wait and mess with Mycroft's head-the only downside to that was being late to his conversation with Lestrade. With that in mind he did an inventory of all items on his person and grinned when he realized most of his personal affects had been left untouched, including his cane. In fact, all that was missing was both his phones.<p>

Mycroft walked into the room just then and John turned his grin towards the elder Holmes brother. "Hello, Mycroft" He chimed. Mycroft looked vaguely disgruntled at the fact John had already escaped his bindings but quickly hid his reaction.

"Hello, Dr. Watson," Mycroft replied evenly, "please take a seat."

John laughed, "I don't think I will." With that John threw several sleeping gas pellets to the ground where they exploded. John already knew it would take longer for him to be affected by the sleeping gas then it would take Mycroft. Listening carefully John only moved once he heard the dull thump of Mycroft's body slipping to the floor. Grinning and moving quickly John made his way through the still thick sleeping gas to Mycroft. He was slumped against the wall still clutching his umbrella. If John estimated correctly he had 3.2 minutes before the rescue party arrived, more than enough time to do what he wanted. First John checked the pockets of the man who abducted him pulling out both phones.

"Thank you," John whispered as he quickly pulled out his kit and set to work. He finished with a minute to spare and a thankfully clear head. Quickly he headed towards the door, already aware it was locked. A few more seconds of attention to the door's lock and it swung outwards allowing John to leave. The gas dispersed into the hallway and John took a picture of Mycroft with his phone.

John stepped out of the doorway before turning back and dipping his invisible hat to Mycroft, "Thank you for your hospitality." And with a wink he was off. He was well aware he would regret this later, but for now he was grinning like mad. It was not every day that one could knock out the British Government and put him in a very feminine outfit with make-up. He had even switched Mycroft's normal umbrella with a pink frilly one.

He hummed to himself as he slipped mostly undetected from the building. This was fun, and reminded him of why he had chosen to become a thief. It was simply for the thrill of the chase, or as he was told by Sherlock he did what he did because he missed the adrenalin of war. He needed that thrill; he needed that challenge to survive. A quick glance at his watch showed that he had been out cold for an hour and that he was very late for meeting Lestrade. Quickly John called Lestrade, hoping to stop his friend from sending out a search party. Lestrade picked up the phone after a single ring.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade of New Scotland Yard speaking," the customary greeting of Lestrade's rang out.

"Greg," John cut in.

"John!" Lestrade shouted and John winced quickly moved the phone away from his ear. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah," he answered honestly, he was perfectly fine from his ordeal; Mycroft on the other hand, was not. "A friend of a friend stopped by to talk and demanded to have lunch with me. I got a little tied up and just managed to escape." That was a mixture of the truth and a lie but it would do for now. It would also ease Lestrade's worry…hopefully.

"You sure?" Lestrade sounded skeptical and John could not blame the man. If he had been able to he would have called to tell Lestrade he would be late but between being knocked out and making the British Government cross-dress it had kind of skipped his mind.

"Yeah, I'll get a cab and be there as soon as possible. I will also abstain from chatting with any acquaintances." John assured him absentmindedly waving his hand to summon a cab. "Sorry to make you worry, Greg."

"It's okay," Lestrade assured him, "better me over reacting then you dead in a gutter somewhere."

John grinned, that was an amusing mental image, even if everyone he knew would over react to it. The chances of him actually ending up in a gutter were slim; an alleyway was much more likely. "I suppose, see you in a few, Greg."

"See you." Lestrade replied hanging up the phone. A taxi pulled right up to John the second he moved his phone from his ear.

"New Scotland Yard, please." John asked slipping into the back seat.

~Change of Scene~

Sherlock had been surprised when Lestrade had called him around noon. Normally the DI would just text him the details of the case. He picked up the phone wondering what caused the Detective Inspector to call him. "Hello, Lestrade." Sherlock said answering the phone.

"Hey, Sherlock, have you seen John?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock took note of his breathing pattern, Lestrade was worried and tired.

"Not since the cabbie incident, "Sherlock answered honestly. He had exchanged dialogue with his thief since then, but had not seen him in person since that day. "Is something wrong?" He asked wanting to know if something had happened to his thief since this morning.

He could hear paper rustling in the background, Lestrade was trying to distract himself, "I don't know. I was talking to him because I needed him to come to the Yard for his witness report on the cabbie case, he was supposed to be here minutes ago but he hasn't arrived." Sherlock ignored his own welling panic by forcing logic into the forefront of his mind.

"Maybe his taxi was delayed." Sherlock said pretending to be exasperated by Lestrade's show of emotion.

"He wasn't taking the taxi," Lestrade said and Sherlock once again refused to acknowledge his own emotions. There was no way his thief would get into trouble that he could not get out of.

"Gotten lost then," Sherlock said with fake exasperation coating his words. "A plethora of things could have happened to John in London and not all of the possibilities end up with him being dead."

Sherlock heard Lestrade growl on the other end of the phone and idly wondered how Lestrade and John had ever become friends. "But this is John, you know how he is! If something happened and he couldn't get here on time he would've called."

"And what do you want me to do about it?" Sherlock asked, knowing that there was nothing that could be done.

"I don't know." Lestrade answered and Sherlock was struck by how defeated he sounded.


	9. Chapter 9

Thank you MysticWolf and SG-chan who helped to get my words flowing again. (The words walked out on me again, so terribly rude ;) Also sorry for not updating in a week, for such a bad chapter, for such a short chapter, and for any confusion with last chapter. (The phone call happened while John was kidnapped.)

Still don't own Sherlock.

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><p>"Has stalking John become a Holmes' sport?" John inquired bluntly from his place on the floor.<p>

Sherlock had the decency to offer his hand to his fallen thief. "Has my brother been bothering you?" He asked to make his mind focus on something other than his thief's hand and grip as he helped aforementioned thief off the floor.

John gave a laugh once he was upright, "Something like that," He admitted coyly before fishing his work cellular out of his pocket. "I repaid him in kind for it though," John said with a straight face before showing Sherlock what he had done with the sleeping Mycroft. Sherlock look surprised but was unable to comment on the odd picture as Lestrade chose that moment to enter the lobby of New Scotland Yard.

"There you are John, I was worried." Lestrade said quickly walking over to John. John knew Lestrade was looking for signs of what had happened to make John as late to his appointment just as Sherlock had been. Unfortunately for his yarder friend he would not have such good of luck figuring it out as Sherlock had.

John just smiled, "No need to worry, Gregory, just an enthusiastic friend who wished for a moment of my time." It was a lie and both Sherlock and John knew it. Lestrade did not look like he was going to accept it before he nodded his head and John knew his lie would slide.

"Ready for to give your report, then?" Lestrade asked and John nodded.

"Talk to you latter, Sherlock." John said faux apologetic as he left the room with Lestrade. He certainly hoped they talked with each other at a later date just preferably not in person. The amount of risk he daily partook in was reaching an unacceptable level and Harry would call him on his addiction just as he had called her on hers. Too bad he was a Watson so his addiction would likely be his end. John quickly had to steer his thoughts away from the idea of Sherlock being the one to kill him, which was dangerous territory for his fantasies.

"What exactly do you need from me, Greg?" John asked. He knew he had to say something about the cabbie and why he was at the crime scene at that time but that could have just been done over the phone, the fax, or even e-mail. It was not Gregory's style to pull him in on such a small thing.

Lestrade ran a hand through his messy hair and John was instantly on guard. That one of Gregory's many tells for when he was nervous about something. "John," Lestrade asked not meeting the army doctor's eyes, "how did you and Sherlock actually meet?"

John's face was the epitome of confusion. "What does this have to do with the case?"

"I worry about him," Lestrade admitted looking at his feet and being unusually shy. "Especially with his history, I don't want him pulling you into anything too bad."

John knew his face looked faintly shocked and his mouth was probably hanging a bit, "Retired Army Medic remember, Greg?" He asked. "I'm fine and Sherlock can't pull me into anything I don't want to do. If you are referring to his former drug addiction for the time I've been his doctor he hasn't relapsed." John hoped that would be enough to appease Mycroft and Lestrade. He knew Mycroft had asked Lestrade to ask John about Sherlock but also was aware the Lestrade did care for Sherlock a lot.

Lestrade looked relieved but still uneasy, "Thank you, John."

"No problem, Greg. Now you said you needed me here because of the cabbie business?" John said to steer the conversation away from Sherlock.

"Oh, yeah, I just need you official statement and all that." Lestrade said pulling out the forms John would need to fill out. John accepted them with an amused sigh.

John glanced over the forms noting were he would have to alter his story so it was not obvious who had shot the cabbie. Hopefully, Sherlock had covered for him but he would not count on it. Rule number one in the life of John Hamish Watson was trust no one, no matter how much you want to. He turned towards the main office area intent on filling out the forms but before he exited, John turned back to face Lestrade, "Greg, don't get so busy as to forget to take care of yourself. I know about the divorce, but working yourself to death won't solve anything. I recommend moving on to show your fickle ex-wife that her leaving doesn't have a negative effect on you at all." With his medical advice delivered John swept out of the room completely unaware that he had left a dumbstruck Lestrade in his wake.

"When did I say anything about my divorce?" Lestrade murmured, unaware he had said that out loud. The divorce had been a recent development and even Sherlock had not picked up on it yet. It was only a matter of time Lestrade knew but he had been hoping to keep it under wraps for a long while. Maybe he had let the divorce idea slip during one of their meetings and John had connected his lack of sleep to that.


	10. Chapter 10

Do I look like Moffat or Sir Doyle? Then I obviously don't own Sherlock.

Also, mandatory cake joke is made. I am sorry and it makes me flinch but my beta insisted and there it is. This whole chapter had to be forced so we'll place this at the bottom of chapters when ordered in how well written they are. Very, very short chapter, sorry.

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><p>Sherlock was a little pissed at his brother. How dare he kidnap John! John was Sherlock's not Mycroft's and Mycroft ought to know better than to mess with something that belonged to Sherlock. Sure, John's reaction and the subsequential photograph made for beautiful black-mail material the fact Mycroft had the audacity to kidnap John made Sherlock bristle. Sherlock would even bet that Mycroft had dug deep on Sherlock's thief and unearthed his full name and other personal details.<p>

He wanted to scream and rage, that was against the rules of the game! He was not quite sure which game or what rules but they were inconsequential matters. What mattered was the fact Mycroft thought he could get away with it, this called for drastic measures to be taken as to ensure the well being of his thief. Sherlock had no problems exploiting his brother's fondness for pastries and cake.

The quiet noise of his phone ringing out Mozart's fifth alerted him that he had a text from John, so Sherlock momentarily place his anger for Mycroft in a box in his mind palace and opened the text.

*Shift Point of View*

The paperwork was tedious and dull, just as John had predicted it to be. It was now over though so he could finally figure out why Sherlock had wanted him at his best today and perhaps why Mycroft felt the insatiable urge to kidnap John. He had gone back to his flat having planned to fax the completed reports to Lestrade.

_Why?-JHW_

_Why what? - SH_

_The kidnapping or the orders, your choice –JHW_

_Mycroft has as much an urge to kidnap those close to me as the average English man has for tea- SH_

_So protective older brother? - JHW_

_Brother= B.G. and he likes to spy-SH_

_All ready knew about him being B.G. One of my jobs involved him at one point, surprised to see his little bro chasing Thieves across the sky-JHW_

_Neither he or Mummy approve- SH_

_Can't imagine why - JHW_

_That was sarcasm-SH_

_Yes, so the orders?-JHW_

_I need you to go to a Chinese Circus. Being a lady friend if you must-SH_

_?-JHW_

_For a case, John. Tell the ticket holder that you reserved two tickets under Jack McLaren and text me the details. –SH_

Well, that was odd. John's mind had short circuited, with possible reasons why. The most obvious one was that it was a trap but Sherlock had odd standards and a trap was not his style. If Sherlock had wanted to trap him he could have done it many a times. John's phone buzzed again alerting him that Sherlock had texted him and John look down with some trepidation.

_I've sent the coordinates, show starts at 7:00-SH_

John had promised Sarah a date tonight and had not really planned on anything special. With that decided John stood up from his dingy bed and moved towards his desk, grabbing his jacket. The place was not very far away and compared to London's normal the weather was wonderful. The current time was only five in the afternoon, giving him plenty of time to fax the reports, pick up Sarah, and walk to the Chinese circus. He just hoped Sarah actually liked acrobatics.

Thirty minutes later found him at Sarah's door, knocking. It did not take long for the door to open and John's arms to be full of a brunette named Sarah Sawyer.

"Hi, Sarah," He greeted once John had regained his breath.

"Hi, John," Sarah returned with ease before extracting herself from his arms. "What do we have on the agenda tonight?"

John gave a friendly laugh before answering, "A little walk under the dying sun, a Chinese acrobatic circus if you're up for it and dinner if my lady permits?"

Sarah smiled, "Sounds lovely, John." She offered her hand and John took it. They then set off into the streets of London with Sarah leaning on John's shoulder and much easy chatter between the two. The two arrived at the complex that was holding the acrobatic/circus thing when the sun was setting, painting a picturesque and peaceful image.

John heard the muted exlamation of awe from Sarah and John was tempted to voice his opinion on the view. The image of another sunset came to mind with a pure white diamond shattering into thousands of shards of different colors and John was silent.


	11. Chapter 11

This should have been up ages ago, but I honestly have no idea what to write. I don't own Sherlock BBC. More of this in 24 hours…call this a teaser. ;)

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><p>John smiled and held Sarah closer when she was afraid of the acts. John personally thought it was all cheep magic tricks and if you wanted to see something truly spectacular you should have watched an army man in action. They knew how to pull off miracles, Spec OPS* in particular knew how to play the crowd. Compared to some of his army mates this performance was stunningly dull. Even the amazing "Chinese Spider" as the announcer called him did not create a sense of awe in him. It was not until after the show, when the lights failed, the John was finally intrigued.<p>

"Get down on your knees." The voice of the announcer shouted and John heard people scramble to obey. The lights flickered back on and John was able to notice five gun bearers, two with what the American's fondly called 'Tommies' and three with a Desert Eagle. Before he could gather more information though, Sarah roughly pulled him down beside her.

"Getting shot up by acrobats was not on the date itinerary." Sarah hissed quietly in his ear.

John felt his lips quirk of their own accord, "Sorry," he whispered back.

If Sarah had any more to say she did not have a chance to say it as the announcer was once again talking, "You are our hostages. You will obey, unless you want to end up as a permanent part of our act. Stay down until we say otherwise." There was silence for a second and from what John could see, a lackey handed the person who appeared to be in charge a phone. The leader dialed a number and it was blatant who she had called once she started speaking, "I am currently holding 15 people hostage. Bow to my demands or I kill them." There was silence once again and it seemed tenser. John knew it was because the hostages had just been threatened and everything had clicked for those still confused."Bring us Sherlock Holmes and the painting Moonlighter was going to take." The police had obviously asked what they wanted for the hostage's release. The leader did something unexpected by turned on speaker phone; John wondered why this was and wished he had paid more attention during psychology. From where John was he could faintly hear what was being said. What drew the gasp from him was not what was being said but who was saying it. Lestrade was on the other end of the phone, which made little to no sense. Lestrade was homicide, not negotiations or kidnapping.

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>*Special Operations (the Elite of the Elite) <div> 


	12. Chapter 12

One hand typing is not fun. ;-; Still don't own Sherlock BBC. Send in idea for a bonus chapter because I've almost hit a major mile marker.

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><p>While the police and the Chinese criminals were wrapping up their deal John was mentally cursing himself for coming so unprepared. All he had was his cane which hardly had anything to help in this situation. Besides any of his tricks left a distinct mark and he did not want his identity blared across the news. He could always wait this out but something in his very being rebelled against that idea, neither John nor the thief inside liked sitting out on the action.<p>

John quickly unscrewed the top of his cane and extracted three sleeping gas capsules. Throwing them on the ground would not work, the sleeping gas was not fast enough for him to shatter them on the ground and not get shot. What he was going to do would hurt and might potentially kill him but it would be worth it. John quickly crushed the capsules in his hands and muffled his cry of pain when the glass shards of the coating sliced his palm open. The sleeping gas in his blood stream would make it harder to stay awake and literally limit his time to 30 minutes, but it would give him enough time to take out those who were holding the civilians hostage. Within 6 minutes everyone was drowsy and starting to fall asleep. John made his move by heading towards the nearest gun man and ripping the gun out of his hand. A quick jab to the thug's solar plexus assured John that even when the man awoke he would be in pain. John then methodically moved among the unconscious spectators and performers, removing weapons from the people who had attempted to hold the spectators hostage. The five gun men were tied to separate supports of the room and John was starting to tie up the announcer when he paused.

He could hear the faint rustling of someone else moving in the curtains. John barely had time to duck before a knife imbedded itself mere centimeters from where his head had been. Within seconds John's assailant had a knife to John's throat.

"Who are you?" The assailant asked. John remained silent even as the person pulled his hair and dug the knife in deeper. John felt his blood bead at where the knife had broke the skin. "What is the formula for the sleep serum?" It took a few seconds for John to compute what that meant.

John just grinned and whispered, "One must be prepared to give all." John showed his hands with the bloody glass shards. "I have 3 minutes left before I'm poisoned beyond anyone's ability to save me." The assailant then dropped him and John fell to the ground gasping for air, wondering if he had perhaps miscalculated how much time he had left. He could tell that the man who had held the knife to his throat had passed out from the sleeping gas. John attempted to stand up but the room swam so he dropped back to the ground. John knew he had to get to water soon so he could wash the gashes on his hand. Plus, he was not keen on leaving his dead body at a crime scene. John had barely made it out into the gritty London air before he heard the sirens and figured if someone wanted to press charges on leaving a crime scene he could claim to be under the influence of the sleeping drug.

Sherlock and Lestrade had arrived at the same time due to the nature of the criminals and deal that had been made. Sherlock looked around the room, searching for a particular face. Where was John? He knew that John has come but he did not see him around. Everyone was out, unconscious - probably John's work. There was no scoring on the ground from his thief's exploding gas pellets which meant that his thief had shattered them another way or had a different way of dispersing the sleeping gas into the air. The only other thing of interest was the blood next to one passed out man with a knife. The man himself was wrapped in several silk draperies which Sherlock deduced were part of his act.

Lestrade's face was pale as he came up beside Sherlock, "That's John's blood on the knife and floor."

"How do you know?" Sherlock asked, even he could not tell whose blood it was without other tests.

"John is the only one of the hostages missing." Lestrade pointed out. "When the higher ups asked me to do the negotiations because I was the only one familiar enough with you to tell if you would follow through with the demands they showed me some footage the criminals had sent. They showed who their hostages were and John was part of the crowd."

Sherlock grinned, "So you aren't too stupid. The only problem with your deduction is that you're forgetting there might be other criminals." Sherlock could plainly see though that it was John's blood, only because he had seen the bloody hand print now. It also revealed how John had released the gas into the air. Sherlock knew that wherever John was he was currently in a lot of pain and probably poisoned as well. Covering for John would allow him to find his thief later and hide him from the Yarders and other suspicious parties. At this rate it might just be easier to keep tabs on his thief so no one else would kidnap or touch his thief again.

Lestrade leveled Sherlock with a glare, "It is John's blood." He offered no more explanation, "Don't bother hiding something from someone who already knows." Sherlock knew he might be talking about John's dabbling in the criminal arts or maybe something else entirely.

Playing it safe Sherlock settled for a haughtily raised eyebrow and, "Oh?"

Lestrade just smirked and walked away throwing, "This is John we are talking about," over his shoulder as he walked away. Sherlock stared after him and wondered when Lestrade had divorced and how exactly Lestrade had found out about John's army history.


	13. Chapter 13

Sorry this took so long. You're welcome to kill me as long as you don't mind me never finishing the story.

I don't own Sherlock. And everyone should be glad because you'd be waiting more than 18 months for the next series of Sherlock if I was.

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><p>John stumbled through London well aware that there was poison coursing through his veins. He defiantly needed to remove the glass and sterilize the wound before it got much worse; he had no plans to die because of an ill planned escape tactic. John marveled at how fast his mind was working given that he was technically dying. He was too far away from his residence to head there and survive. His best option was to get to the Thames and wash it in the dirty water. He was not looking forward to the imminent infection but it was better than death he supposed.<p>

The fact he could think of viable options both ways told him how bad his life was at the moment. No rest for the wicked he supposed. Black spots danced in John's vision and he sighed, maybe eternal rest was in store for him then. His thought process was brought to a jarring halt when his legs gave out and John thought no more...

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><p>Lestrade wrapped up the crime scene quickly, because no matter what Sherlock thought he was a competent police officer. He also had a wayward friend to check up on as it was likely Sherlock had already found the doctor. If Sherlock had not found John then he was going to go looking for him. A quick text to Sherlock confirmed that the doctor was in his care though unresponsive.<p>

_Found John? –GL_

_Yes, taken him back to Baker Street, you aren't allowed to have him. –SH_

_Lucid? – GL_

_Not yet. –SH_

_Tell me when? –GL_

_Maybe -SH_

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><p>Sherlock stared, a bit worried, at the pale and sweating face of his thief. He had washed John's hand wounds as best he could and was now cursing the thief's stupidity. The sleeping gas that had been used was generally non-toxic-except, apparently, when it was applied directly into the blood stream. The glass shards that he had removed from John's hand were not decreasing his worry. The sound of someone moving up the steps broke Sherlock out of his reverie. Sherlock stood and moved towards the door that barred this room from the rest of the flat.<p>

He knew it was his brother and was prepared to protect John from the government official.

Sherlock came face to face with Mycroft at the top of the stairwell, "Mycroft," he faux pleasantly greeted his brother.

"Hello, Sherlock," Mycroft returned evenly, "I'm here to collect the convict in the spare bedroom."

Sherlock smiled and bared his teeth, "You can't have him."

"And why ever not?" Mycroft's voice implied that it was not a question and that he would not leaving the flat with John.

"Because he is mine'" Sherlock growled, "and I'm not giving him to you."

"He is a human being, Sherlock, you cannot just keep him."

"Watch me. And if I can't keep him then you can't either."

"Oh, I don't plan on keeping him." Mycroft had exactly what he planned on doing to Captain John H. Watson planned out, and there nothing about keeping him in those numerous plans.

Sherlock hissed, "You can't kill him either. I've told you, he's mine! You should vacate my flat before I make you."

"Brother dear, I think you've forgotten who pays your rent and actually owns this flat." Mycroft replied with a smirk.

"Fuck off," Sherlock snarled with a feral look in his eyes, "before I make you." Mycroft inwardly frowned, these emotions would make his brother susceptible to hurt but maybe it would teach him.

Mycroft whirled around and descended back down the stairs throwing one last statement behind him, "Caring is not an advantage, you of all people should know that, Sherlock."

Sherlock stared after him, completely unmoved by the whole display. He was under no illusion that Mycroft would just ignore John once he was recovered and silently vowed that Mycroft would not touch John as long as he had a say in it. A very low groan lead him back to the bed room, John was sitting up in the bed with a hand to his head. Sherlock felt his heart rate decrease, John was strong and John would survive whatever the poison was.

"Ibuprofen and water?" The detective asked from his position in the doorway. Wary eyes immediately bolted to him and he could see the tension and fear that his thief felt. John did not answer the question and continued starring at the detective.

Sherlock sighed, "Advil and water?" he asked for a second time, "Or will it mess with the poison and you might not recover?" That seemed to break John out of his stupor. He no longer seemed afraid though the tension remained.

"Neither ibuprofen nor water should have any adverse effects on the poison or my recovery." John answered with a subtle wince that told Sherlock all he needed to know.

"You need rest," Sherlock said simply, "lay down; I'll get you some ibuprofen for that headache of yours. It is a side effect of your body battling the poison right?"

John nodded before wincing once again and Sherlock muttered under his breath about doing stupid things while injured which earned him a glare from said injured thief. Sherlock just smiled back and walked away to get the ibuprofen. He was back in the guest bedroom in less than five minutes and was absurdly pleased to see that John had not vacated the premise. Making a show of being grumpy about playing nurse maid Sherlock offered a tablet of ibuprofen and a glass of water to John.

John accepted it with a smile instead of a nod and quickly swallowed the pill and washed it down with water. Sherlock still thought that John looked much too pale to be healthy but did not comment on that.

"You need to sleep," Sherlock said in his best authorities tone.

John offered him a smirk, saluted him and said, "Yes, mother."

Sherlock blinked and decided on the safest way to answer that, "Not your mother, you're older than me." John blinked as though processing what was just said.

"You'd know that how?" There was a wary edge to John's voice that he decidedly did not like. His thief had no reason to fear him unless they were at one of John's crime scenes.

"I saw," Sherlock explained, "My deductions have lead me to believe that you served in the army for 9-10 years which starting you out at the age of 25 or 26 would make you 34 to 36, I'm only 30."

"Where'd you get those ages?" John sounded honestly curious and Sherlock sighed.

"18 when you started medical school, 8 years of medical school makes you 26 when you entered the army the 10 years you spent serving brings you up to 36 at the oldest. I'm not sure about your exact birthdate so I cannot be 100% accurate." Sherlock explained his thought process quickly and John nodded.

"You're close." He then gave a tired grin, "I believe the doctor ordered rest? I'll see you at a later date." John then turned so his back was facing the detective and presumably wandered off to dreamland. Sherlock frowned and made a mental note to inform John that turning your back on people was generally not a good idea. He would let it slide this once because he had no intention of anyone hurting his thief. Sherlock left the room for a bit and returned with several books on psychology. He had a while before John would wake up again and he was certainly not going to let it go to waste.


	14. Chapter 14

Don't own Sherlock BBC. I make this glaringly obvious in this chapter with a different Irene Adler. And I'm finally drawing Blink Banker to a close.

Also please note this: I write for the NaNoWriMo which means one of two things, either an insane amount of updates as I procrastinate or no updates while I actually write it.

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><p>When Sherlock wakes up he knows something has gone wrong. The fact that he woke up when he never intended to go to sleep in the first place would be a clue even Anderson could pick up. He opens his eyes and looks down at the book in his hand. Page 2,732...which means he fell asleep around two in the morning. If he had not already known that John had left sometime at the night the sight of someone else sleeping where the thief had formerly slept would have been a much larger surprise, as it was he was a bit surprised that someone had come and slept in place of John. As though awoken by Sherlock's stare the woman turned around and grinned, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.<p>

She sits up, holding the sheet up to cover herself, "John's fine." Fair greeting, considering the fact that she is in his bed.

"And who are you?" Sherlock demands softly, voice laced with steel.

"Irene Adler, but I doubt you've heard of me. A bit of a friend of John's though." She smirks and Sherlock fights back jealousy, knowing that the woman hopes to see a display of exactly that. "When he's in a good mood that is-because jewel thieves don't mingle among their own, even if the jewels we are stealing are quite a bit different."

Sherlock raises a single eyebrow and states, "I should turn you in." He only does this to tell her that he is not going to turn her in now because she might know something about where John is. Should she cease to be an asset though, Sherlock would be all too happy to get rid of her.

"But you won't." Irene says as she slips out of his bed fully clothed. "I'm your best chance at getting John back and wrapping up your case. He thinks you should have solved this eons ago but you were a bit to busy chasing him to give it your 100 percent." She wanders over to the window and peers out. "Where are we starting?" Her bearing and tone imply a subtle power but also that she is willing to let him lead for a bit. She will not demand that he adhere to her every beck and call, at least not here with John between them.

"We?"

"I'm your incentive to get things done." Sherlock gives Irene a bland look saying that he never agreed to this. "Oh, don't give me that look. The sooner you wrap the case up the sooner I'm gone and you get John back." She says it as sweetly as she can manage. Irene has no wish to stay here with Sherlock, it feels to much like falling and not enough like flying. The sensation is bad enough that she hopes whatever it is she is staying around for ends quickly because she has no wish to stay here. Even if you took the irate detective out of the mix something about the whole set up messed with her mental facilities in improper ways.

Sherlock carefully words his next question, looking for a specific answer, "And why should I believe that?"

"You and I both know, Mr. Holmes, that belief only exists if one does not _know._ Since you are fully in control of your cranium and therefore, your vast intelligence, you know that I speak the truth. There is no believing to be done." She smirks at the detective as she turns around, and Sherlock is surprised by how playful she looks.

Cold, calculating eyes scanned the woman swiftly before finally muttering tersely, "Fine." He swept out of the room with only a shout of, "Try and keep up." He does not want some woman following him around all day, he does have better things to do. His list starts at New Scotland yard and spirals for there.

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><p>"Sherlock, what are you doing here?" Lestrade shouts as he trails after the irate detective, "And whose this? Your girlfriend?"<p>

Irene laughs, "Hardly, Inspector, a friend of John's. I'm supposed to make sure that Sherlock eats and sleeps according to the instructions John gave him."

Lestrade twists around to give Irene another look over, "Where is John?"

She smiles at John's obviously concerned friend, "Sleeping. I can send him over to fill out his report as soon as he's better. What ever he got gassed with really messed with him and it always takes a while to snap out of his military mindset." She let just enough of a tremor be seen that the Inspector would get the idea that she had seen John in full military mode and it had scared her. Hardly the truth, but workable for now.

"Will he be okay?"

"Yeah, he is made of tough stuff. I'm more worried about Sherlock personally. I think he might decide to take down all of Scotland Yard because someone shot the Chinese mobsters." Irene admitted to it softly, playing the concerned female perfectly. The inspector seemed amused though but not fooled, at least not completely.

Greg offered her a lopsided grin, "How did you know that?" He had two ideas and only one of them was remotely possible.

"Sherlock." And his theory was proven right with one little word.

"Ah..." Greg said while nodding with an understanding smile. Naturally he looked towards the man they were conversing about, "Speaking of him, where has Sherlock gone?"

Irene followed the inspector's line of sight, "Fuck. It has been nice chatting to you, Inspector!" She took off a lot quicker then Greg thought should be possible in those heels and disappeared quickly around a corner. And Greg stared at where the woman had been standing seconds before, slightly confused before deciding he simply had not had enough coffee to deal with anything slightly Holmes related. And maybe, if no one thought it would be funny to change the coffee to decaf again, he could survive today.


End file.
